It’s another lovely day. In typical Norfolk fashion, we say we need rain, although we love to have the sun. Every time I go out at this time of the year I take a conscious pleasure in the hedgerows. The blackthorn, which I think must be my favourite hedgerow tree (fabulous white blossom on leaf-free branches and sloes in the autumn as a bonus) is starting to fade, and the hawthorn is in fresh pale green leaf, which will be followed in a few days by (the clue is in the name) the maytree blossom. Cowslips along the A140, magnolias in gardens, lilac just coming out. I’m not sure why I thought it was a good idea to go on holiday just now. Only for a week though. I trust there won’t be a sharp frost to catch the wisteria on the front of the house.
I’m eating chocolate and drinking wine. The first is v bad, the second is fine. Indeed, I was awfully pleased when the Sage accepted a glass too. Ro said “isn’t it a bit early?” “Not for lunch,” I explained, waving my smoked salmon sandwich at him. Then the Sage offered us chocolates (after the salmon). Ro refused, bemused. I think we’ve reverted to an alarming immaturity compared to him.
I’ve got a lot to do. I can’t take it seriously. Yesterday took it out of us. The Sage is gently dozing in the chair next but one to mine. The chair next to mine has three days-worth of newspapers on it that we haven’t had time to read yet.
I’m also reading Camus, L’étranger. I last read it in 1972, when I was about to take French A level. I have to admit, it’s using a fair bit of concentration. I’m too lazy to look up the words I don’t know, which is slightly disjointing to the story, although one can work most of it out. My French is rubbish.